Love lives on though Amelia is dead.

(photo by Oer-Wout)

I knew he would come for me,

that he wouldn't let go.

A love like that is not easily forgotten,

not when two souls merge and feel as one.

But I couldn't be with him,

not anymore,

he made me feel like I wasn't myself,

my once crystal dreams had blurred.

He shattered them with promises, plans and demands,

he made me feel drained,

a lifeless shadow behind his fiery passion, and darkest heart.

I couldn't breathe, I couldn't feel,

I had to leave,

and so I did.

The whole Kingdom whispered that this would mean my death,

betrayal always has the smell of blood,

so I knew the day was near,

when he would take away everything I hold dear,

my golden youth, my fairy dreams,

his eyes when his seas are calm,

his flesh against my heart.

But though I knew, I just went on,

playing my happy song on the guitar,

singing along,

under the Poplar tree,

the tree of Death,

Hades' beloved tree.

My feet are turning blue in the winter stream.

"Oh, how I dream of countries far and wide,

to see them all before I die,

I am so young and fair and true,

my sons shall sing my happy tune.

Oh, mother Earth and Oceans wide,

I feel your tide rising inside,

Oh! Gods believe me,

I do not lie...

I do not wish to die"

My tear as cold as the melting snow, maybe I have already died.

I saw him from the corner of my eye,

my gleaming Prince holding his sword.

He had left his white steed not far behind,

the killing wouldn't take him long.

His once blue eyes were red and bloody,

stormy rings encirled both,

his skin was pale,

his lips looked dead and ash clouded his hair,

his clothes were torn, the gold was covered in blood,

what have you done,

my love,

what have you done...

-Amelia, you knew I'd find you... why did you linger?

He drew his sword and stood before me,

I felt its cold steel on my neck.

-Why did you leave me...WHY?

I did not speak then, I stood before the tree,

 closed my eyes and heard the water

gurgling through the mud and stones,

happy and free.

-Speak! Tell me why!

 His rusty breath filled my lungs,

I heard fiery wrath shattering the remnants of his heart.

- I want to be what I was meant to be,

not a figment of your dream.

I won't obey your commands,

that is not what true love does.

-If I can't have you, nobody will.

 Witch!

You shall taste my steel and wrath.

THIS is what true love does.

The coldest blade broke into my spine,

Amelia was no more alive,

and as I watched myself bleed,

I heard my old Prince weep,

not with remorse, not with relief.

He pushed his face in the gash

and drank my unfairly, spilt blood,

each drop a wail, a cry,

until my body ran dry.

But love lives on,

beyond Hades' halls,

loves lives on

among the dead souls,

He'll come to me,

soon enough,

love lives on,

beyond death and wrath.



The Therapist

(photo by Kingston Lounge)

All the agony and pain she gradually crammed between the books,
each spine, a bloody tale,
each cover a relived dream,
a bookcase, a shrine and a held-back tear,
a flash of memory, a gutted zombie walks out of its tomb.

And though she knows all the secret, magic words,
she never says them out-loud,
she is afraid of a heart beat out of tune,
and of death, himself - he might come out and collect-
and then all the words will die with her.

She keeps the words in a glass bowl,
like marbles and fish alive,
she feeds them hope and they grow fat,
but never comes round to the tedious task,
to write them down and pass them around,
like proper witches do.

The bookcase, ladden with facts and recipes of out-wordly tasks,
casts its shadow in the dark,
she feels it even when the lights are dead.
Does she dare, with paper and ink, to pull the volumes out,
to relieve the dreams and take the truth down?

The red ink spills on the floor and makes the white sheets red,
she doesn't mind, she doesn't care,
she knows, she feels,
the stories are real,
and that even she, the most powerful witch, must not be spared.

What happened to the key story.

It was a really good story when I first came up with it, but each time I tried to put my hands around it and do something with it, it just went flat.
I feel very frustrated when something like this happens but I think there is no better way to deal with it than just letting the story rest for a while.

Maybe later on, the key will let me curl my fingers around it and squeeze its story out.